


Pezberry Week: 11 February - 17 February

by thecrackshiplollipop



Series: Pezberry Week [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Pezberry Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrackshiplollipop/pseuds/thecrackshiplollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe these will get explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pezberry Week: 11 February - 17 February

_"I don't hate Santana! We used to be roommates!"_

_"Of course I love Rachel. Love taking roles from her!"_

* * *

"I fucking hate her." Rachel huffs into the phone's receiver and throws a handful of popcorn at the TV. It falls short and scatters over the coffee table. She doesn’t even stop her pug, Weinstein, from scrambling off the couch to scavenge. She’s totally outdone. "Did they really have to ask us about each other on the same red carpet?"

"Of course, sweetie. Your little blow up last month is the biggest news in the Broadway world since Mamma Mia closed. You’re a crossover star now, everything you do is being scrutinized."   
  
"I know. I know." She clenches her jaw and breathes out through her nose. "I know."  
  
"Okay then," Blaine sighs after a beat. "Look hon, I know you’re having a crisis. But I have got to go. Jim's staying late at work and I need to pick up Theo from daycare."  
  
"Of course. Give him a hug for me."   
  
Blaine hangs up after he promises to call tomorrow and Rachel is left with a TiVo recording of the Tony's red carpet that's paused on Santana's smiling face. She throws another handful of popcorn at the TV for good measure and decides that while the pros for hitting the gym out-number the pros for sitting on the couch and ordering a pizza, she could really use a stuffed crust mushroom pizza. Red carpet-ready abs be damned. (She’s more of a morning gym person, anyway.)

* * *

  _Wicked: The Movie_  premiers at the top of the weekend box office, much to nobody’s surprise. Monday brings a deluge of positive reviews across the board. Nine out of ten in the New York Times, where she's called "the love child Idina Menzel never knew about". She sits on Facetime with Blaine (and Theo) while she reads Rotten Tomatoes and with the percentage at 64% she doesn’t feel like going out for Thai with Tina and her new girlfriend (Angie or Tangie, Rachel never quite got that part) is an unwarranted celebration.

Tuesday is coffee with Kurt and _his_ new boyfriend (Andre? Greyson? Maybe it was Felix?) where they’re hassled by paparazzi until they have to go sit inside. A little girl asks Rachel for her autograph and, well, she briefly considers single parent adoption before a toddler across the restaurant starts screaming about wanting Cheetos.

Her week gets even better on Wednesday. Her agent calls from LA (“Sunshine! No, not you, here. I see that it’s raining in New York. Sucks to be you. But I have good news!”) to let her know that the film received enough acclaim that it’s getting a sequel. Felicity stresses that there's no guarantee that the script will even call for Rachel to reprise her (soon to be) award winning role as Elphaba, but there’s a chance. Felicity hangs up with a half-promise to fly out to New York once the weather clears up, and Rachel can barely keep her hands steady as she dials her dads. 

There’s this new musical in the works, something akin to  _Thoroughly Modern Millie_  with a little lesbian twist that humped a rock opera in the style of _RENT_. Or at least, that’s the way Kurt describes it. It sounds ridiculous, but there are some positive rumblings in the stage world, so she takes the slot Kurt reserved for her on Thursday - late in the morning so she has enough time to properly warm up her vocal chords - and shows up at the audition early to scope out the competition. 

Except, when she follows Stage Hand Melinda into a small waiting room, there's only a handful of girls who look as apathetic about the musical as possible, and then there's Santana.

She's dressed in plain black, like every other person in the room, but Rachel's attention is drawn to her regardless. It's _Santana Lopez_ , after all, queen of making skinny jeans look sexier than a skirt. Also, she’s standing in the middle of the room while everyone else is sitting in chairs looking like they would much rather be somewhere else. It’s the  _last_ thing Rachel needs before an audition, even one she’s not fully dedicated to.

And really, Rachel is only human, she can't help the fact that their (very public, and very embarrassing) fight a few weeks back still stings. She can count on one hand how many times someone has whipped out a height-based insult to her face since she graduated from NYADA. All of them can be traced to that five minutes with Santana in front of a Starbucks. Plus, one of her favourite blouses is ruined thanks to a coffee stain.

(Swear to god she will never let Blaine off the hook for having her speak to his Musical Theatre class at Pace. It's his fault she's in this mess.)

A 17 year old Rachel would definitely react negatively, maybe stomp her foot or storm out. But she's 26 years old, and professional, so instead she flashes the most civil smile in her repertoire at Santana before sitting on the opposite side of the room.

Santana has always been more confrontational than Rachel, though, so when the room empties out a little (two girls get fed up and leave because apparently two Tony nominees auditioning for one role is too much), she takes a seat across from Rachel. Their knees are almost touching and Rachel can see Santana's hands fidgeting in her lap. But Rachel refuses to acknowledge her, focusing instead on the stage cues in the script in her lap.

"Rachel." The tone of her voice takes Rachel back to when they were roommates, before they found the time to run to IKEA and Santana was stuck sleeping on their lumpy couch. She would spend an hour tossing and turning before giving in and quietly sneaking into Rachel's "room". She would whisper her name in the dark, tired and frustrated and trying hard not to wake up Kurt who suddenly developed the lightest sleep cycle in Brooklyn. But then they’d spoon, because Rachel’s bed wasn't very big. Santana’s feet were always so cold, but Rachel got used to that and her breathing against her back. Sleep came easily after a time and even after Santana got a bed and her own area, some nights Santana would crawl into Rachel's bed and put her cold feet against Rachel's legs.

She has to shake off the nostalgia because Santana has turned into a superb actress since her first bit part on  _Law & Order: SVU_ and Rachel has learned never to trust people who are good at pretending. Also, she’s been staring at Santana for a minute with this wide-eyed expression and the range of emotions playing across Santana’s face is almost painful.  
  
"Oh, are we on first name basis again?” She narrows her eyes to smooth over her own awkwardness and grips the script so tightly it crinkles in her hand. “No witty remarks on my height? Maybe my nose? Or my supposed lack of femininity? Should I start insulting your personality, or maybe your high school wardrobe?" Santana at least has the grace to look like she swallowed a chicken bone. Rachel sighs, anger and frustration rushing out of her system like air out of a balloon, and the tension in her shoulders eases so she slumps forward a little. The remaining actresses in the room have moved away from them, and in her periphery Rachel can see one of them has their phone out. Fucking Twitter.  
  
"Feel better?"   
  
"No." She presses her fingers against her lips and studies the wash pattern of Santana's jeans. "That was total bullshit, by the way."  
  
"What, our _'fight'_?" Rachel can hear the air quotes in Santana's voice and she almost smiles. But it’s never that easy with her, so instead she pushes her fingers against her mouth harder and nods. "Ugh, Rach. Please. I was having a shitty day and the last thing I wanted to talk about was the Tony's or coordinating auditions so we could star in a musical together."  
  
"How do you even know that's what I was going to talk about? And anyway, who cares, that isn't a good enough reason to snap at someone. Or knock their coffee out of their hand."  
  
"That was an accident. Next time, don't hold your coffee out when I'm gesturing."  
  
"Whatever." Rachel rolls her eyes away from Santana's face back to the script resting on her knee. It's a small excerpt from the main character's monologue on her sexuality, and Rachel's publicist had a coronary because Rachel isn't technically 'out' as a bisexual actress in Hollywood. But technicality be damned, she made out with a girl for months in the travelling production of RENT. And the writer of this play is a personal friend, so-  
  
"Hello? Rachel? Did you have your required two cups of coffee this morning? Let’s focus on the issue at hand and fix it. I'm so tired of paparazzi standing outside my apartment like you're going to storm over and pull me onto the street for a physical fight."  
  
"Please, kicking your ass in this audition will be far more satisfying than scratching up your pretty face."  
  
“Careful Berry, you’re dangerously close to a kink and I’m not sure you’re ready to go there.”  Santana laughs, which makes Rachel smile despite herself. "This isn't even a real fight. If they'd have seen us in high school..."  
  
"Oh we would've been all over the tabloids, for sure. Like Angelina and Jennifer. But instead of photoshopped pictures of you glaring at me there would be TMZ footage of you screaming at me in Spanish or rumours of your voodoo doll that looks like me."   
  
"The press would love that. Maybe you should tell them that story next time they ask you about our fight instead of that fake bullshit you pulled on the red carpet.”   
  
“Oh. Like you were being totally honest.”  
  
“I was! I really do love kicking your ass. Professionally.” Santana runs her fingers through her hair, upsetting the perfect waves framing her face, and shrugs. The room falls silent for a moment and Rachel wonders when they became the last two actresses in the room.   
  
There’s a thump outside the door and Rachel realises they've reached an impasse and the only way around it is...  _Ugh._ But, she has to admit, she’s getting a little tired of the same paparazzi question hanging over her head. TMZ is incessant and, honestly,  _how do celebrities have lives in Hollywood?_  
  
"Sorry for calling you a talentless hack, by the way. You're not talentless."  She rolls her eyes a little, as if to add ‘that’s ridiculous’.   
  
"Yeah well I probably shouldn't have called you a Gremlin. Or insulted your hands."  
  
"Well, for what it's worth, coral nail polish  _does_  make my skin look old."   
  
Rachel smiles weakly, the same the same one she forced when Santana moved out to live with Brittany. And then the Stage Hand Melinda comes back, gawping at them becauseand Santana's number is up.   
  
"Okay. We'll grab coffee later." It isn’t a question, but really Rachel wouldn't turn the offer down if it was. They have a public image to repair, after all.  
  
"As long as it's not Starbucks." She smiles again, brighter this time, and then Santana laughs and squeezes her knee. Then she's off, following Stage Hand Melinda, leaving Rachel to focus on the monologue because, friends or whatever, she's still a  _much_  better actress than Santana and she has to prove that.


End file.
